A few things I'd like to address:

1.) It's New Year's Eve. Kill me. I don't really know what to say about New Year's Eve that I didn't say last year. I hate it. It stresses me out. I wish it didn't exist. Simultaneously, I find my own level New Year's Scroogery to be irritating, but can't make it stop. Seriously, I'm irritating myself right now. As I type this. Each sentence is more irritating than the last. My ideal New Year's Eve involves taking a shit ton of Ambien, sleeping from the night of the 30th to the morning of the 1st and pretending like New Year's never even happened. And I'm not saying that for giggles; I feel like I could actually pull that off. Then Heath Ledger had to go and forget how many sleeping pills he took and ruin it for the rest of us. GAWD. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say in my own special Meg way is: Happy New Year's!

2.) I've gotten a lot of emails asking me if I'll be re-capping The Real World: DC and I'd like to take this time to answer those questions: No. No, I will not be. While I'm honored you thought of me for your recapping needs, I just can't make myself watch that trash. Which is saying a lot because watching trash is sort of my shtick. I know I should care about this season because it takes place in my 'hood and I've got mad DC pride and blah blah blah, but honestly, The Real World could take place in Edward Norton's pants and I would still rather poke my eyes out with a blunt object than watch. There's nothing appealing to me about watching a bunch of whiny 20-year-olds walk around DC acting super impressed with themselves. Because I did that already. It was called: I went to American University. So, thanks but no thanks and sorry to disappoint. (Man, I really shouldn't blog on New Year's Eve. I'm being a fucking asshole today more of a fucking asshole than usual today.)

3.) Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome is currently on AMC.

4.) We don't need another hero.

5.) Soooo, the newest episode of Jersey Shore (a program I can get behind) is on tonight at 10 o'clock. Which is awkward. Because at 10 o'clock tonight I plan on being three distinctly different kinds of fucked up in a pile of Andre, tears, self-induced vomit and fake eyelashes somewhere in the greater Washington, DC area. (Awkward...) I also don't have DVR. (Double awkward...) And I don't plan on blogging Friday in anticipation of being fiercely hungover. (We've reached Zoinks! level.) BUT! God willing, MTV will probably show tonight's episode 9,000 times over the weekend, so perhaps I can get a recap up for Monday? I make no promises. Wait...full episodes are online. Ok, I make promises. If you are planning on catching tonight's all-new episode, I recommend you play along with 2b1b reader, John "The Business" Hubbard's Ultimate Jersey Shore Drinking Game! I'm so jealous I didn't write this; it's just that good. Have a wonderful New Year's Eve, thank you so much for reading and as always, we'll see you back here Monday morning! Buh-bye!

The Ultimate Jersey Shore Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- Someone says "juicehead"
- Pauly is drying his hair
- Snookers alienates herself from the housemates
- You can see more than 3/4's of J-Woww's boobs
- Vinny openly mocks someone else in the house
- A Guido says "honestly bro" or "pound it out"
- Angelina cockblocks someone
- For every person in the hot tub
- Someone uses the word "Guidette"
- Angelina acts like simple retail tasks are really, really hard
- Someone talks about hair gel or tanning
- A muscular dude drinks a shockingly feminine drink
- Mike talks about The Situation
- There's something blatantly sexist
- Someone says either "Jersey" or "Shore"
- Sammi "Sweetheart" refers to herself as Sammi "Sweetheart"
- Anytime someone feels betrayed
- There's a guy with his shirt off
- There's a can of light beer in view
- The Situation sells a t-shirt or pair of hot pants
- Someone responds to someone else's comment with the exact same or coequal comment, eg:
J-Woww: "You don't understand how bad I want you."
Pauly: "You don't understand how bad I want you."

My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy and Me!

I can’t believe New Year’s Eve is barreling down upon us already. So much has happened in 2009, it’s hard for me to put it into words.

And I don’t plan to. Simple as that. You all know what happened in 2009. I’m 97% sure you were also there. So what can I do for you to close out your 2009 since I’m not humorously wrapping up the year? Probably nothing. New Years, like Halloween, is one of those holidays with a disproportionate fun to planning ratio. [Editor's Note: I (Meg) could not disagree with this statement more if I were being paid to. The traumatic heinousness that is New Year's Eve has absolutely nothing to do with the majesty of Halloween. Chris has meth psychosis. That is all.] It’s like the more work you put into planning your night, the less fun you’re going to have. In short, we should all stay home with our cats, read a book, maybe play some Sudoku, and drink tea to celebrate. But you and I both know that’s not going to happen.

As is tradition for me, I plan to black out around 11:59, just seconds before the ball drops. Then pretend to have known where I was when Baby New Year came kicking and screaming into our lives (answer: at the bar getting drink number 972 billion of the night, drunk texting the world some illegible variation of “Happy New Year”). The best part of this tradition is definitely the morning after because the calibre of my misadventures increases significantly on New Years Eve. New Year’s Day is like a scavenger hunt, where I spend all day going from one person to the next finding clues as to what I did the night before. I like to think of it as Supermarket Sweep, except instead of finding riddles about Philadelphia cream cheese in the bread aisle, I’m finding fragments of my shame in the gutters of New York City.

One particularly poignant New Years Eve was spent with our dear Meg McBlogger. To ring in 2008, we met up with Meg’s friend at a bar on the Upper West Side. The price was right and it was a solid plan, so I was 100% down. Cut to NYE circa 10:30, when we trek out from the depths of Brooklyn, to what ends up being borderline Harlem. No worries though because we both were looking good, feeling good, ready to close this year out with style.

Well. Ladies and gentlemen, I was a wittle hasty with my drink, and my memory from this night abruptly ends approximately after saying hello to Meg’s friend. That does not, however, mean that my night ended. Noooooo, far from it. I have this irritating (or amazing) ability to function LONG after my brain shuts down. I only found out about what I did the next day, after waking up on top of my covers in my clothes from the night before.

What I found out is this: I proceeded to THOROUGHLY liquor myself up as the night wore on, which led me to make out with everyone in the bar when the ball dropped. When that party winded down, Meg, her friend, and I decided to hit up a party in Brooklyn. As soon as I exited the cab, I promptly vomited all over the entire borough. Meg, being the saint that she is, realized my level of intoxication, and attempted to flag a cab down to take us home. Being that we lived just north of Satan’s asshole, no cab would take us, until Meg showed a little leg and a lot of chest to some gypsy cab driver. Unfortunately for her, I turned into what she calls “Legs”, meaning my drunk legs kicked in, and I had ambled away somewhere. That somewhere happened to be passed out standing up leaning against the corner between two buildings. Safe. After much cajoling, convincing me a brick wall is not a good sleeping surface, we get into the cab and home safely. SCENE. For me, the retelling of this story is infinitely more fun than actually experiencing it. I’m sure my drunk mind was just picturing a monkey in a top hat riding a unicycle all night.

So what am I trying to get across with this story? Obviously I’m not trying to lead by example. If that were the case, we’d have a situation on our hands. The point is to try and have fun on the night of New Year’s, and you can’t do that when you’re blackout drunk. What if you meet the most amazing guy/girl and have the best sex, but you don’t remember it when you wake up because after you were finished, you wandered away?

This is why I propose the New Year’s Eve buddy system. It’s like a middle school field trip, but with less learning, more adult beverages, and equal amounts of awkward. Naturally, unless you are a lone wolf, you’ll be going out on the town with at least one friend on NYE. Great, now you have your buddy. And what you and your buddy are going to do is, well, everything together. You should be able to scream “BUDDY CHECK!” at any point during the night and get some sort of response from your buddy. A head nod, a wave, the middle finger. Any reaction will suffice. Another beer? BUDDY CHECK! If you’re buddy acknowledges you, then you’re good to go. It’s flawless.

This can also work to prevent some terrible life choices from being made. If you see your friend typing furiously on his/her cell phone all night, you can yell BUDDY CHECK and cockblock that booty text message to the ex at 1 AM. See your friend heading out the door with a fuggo? BUDDY CHECK and you make some excuse to nip that prescription for Valtrex in the bud.

Let’s say you do happen to meet that dream guy/girl and you want to have that amazing sex that you won’t remember. You and your buddy call your final check so you can talk it out. If your buddy approves (after all, two pairs of beer goggles are better than one, right?) then off you go into the wild, wild world.

It’s a win-win situation to me. I know that I would still be asleep in an alleyway in Brooklyn if it weren’t for Meg. Without a buddy, that could be you. And we wouldn’t want you to start out the New Year in a ditch.

In conclusion, I hope that each and every one of you has a great New Year and you all get laid and get drunk and be merry and all your wildest dreams come true. Thanks for reading and I love you all and I’ll see you in 2010!

I could talk about my bitterness towards pogs for days...

I'm the last person to know about anything. If something is popular and cool, odds are I have absolutely no idea what it is. That's actually a pretty good litmus test of hipness. If I know about it; lame. If I've never heard of it; nice. My two primary examples of this are pogs and the Internet. Ironically, the McBlogger family thought the Internet was a passing fad and didn't invest in it until, oh, yesterday. I spent a large part of my High School career in the computer lab bonding with the foreign kids because none of us had the Internet at home. I also remember going to visit my sister at college and being like "WHAT?!? YOU HAVE THE INTERNET IN YOUR DORM ROOM?!? FEET AWAY FROM YOUR BED?!?! THE FUTURE IS NOW!!!1" Later that night when she went out to party, I opted to stay in her dorm room to surf the 'nets because I discovered that Ben & Jerry's had a website. Seriously. I was like, "Uh, you can keep your little party, thank you very much. Rumor has it Saturday Night Live has a website too! Clearly, I've got my work cut out for me."

I had a similar experience with pogs. I swear to all that is good and holy, I hopped on the pog train the day before they stopped being cool. Mere hours before their stagnation. Week after week I would sit on the sidelines at recess watching the cool kids play pogs, just wishing I had my own to bring to the table. Finally one day after school, my mom drove me to M.J. Designs on Georgia Avenue and I went fucking pog-crazy. There were these huge metal tubs filled to the brim with pogs and I dropped to my knees before them with tears in my eyes, plunged my arms in, lifted them out and let the pogs rain down upon me. This was the day that I was finally going to be cool. I ended up buying five cases in varying heights and neon colors, three slammers, an official pog playing board (to ensure extra popularity) and hundreds upon hundreds of pogs. At the time I was in a Saturday morning bowling league with Teresa and her little sister (yes that's true; no you can not have sex with me) so I got this special set of gilded bowling pogs that I was so incredibly proud of. The next day at recess, I rolled up to the pog circle all fat and cocky, threw down my brand new Stüssy brand slammer and was like "BAM! I'm your new Queen Bee bitches. Now someone go get me a Fruitopia!" Crickets. Absolutely nobody was impressed. They were like, "Sorry Meg, pogs are out. It's all about Airwalk sneakers now. Got a pair of Airwalks?" I looked down at my crisp, white Keds (which may or may not had been puff-painted with my name flanked by two paw prints) and hung my head in shame. Not only was I still not cool, I felt so incredibly guilty that my mom had just spent like 50 bucks on fucking pogs that would never even see the light of day. For months I would bring my pog gear to sleepovers all, "POGS?! POGS ANYONE?! HUH?? HUHHH?!?!" and my friends would be like, "Yyyyeahhhh.............no."

God. Fucking pogs.

Anyway, what I'm trying to get at here is this: have you guys heard about these new-fangled Tide to Go pens?!

That's my personal Tide to Go pen. No big deal.

They are like the absolute coolest things I have ever seen in my entire life. I always thought Shout Wipes and Tide to Go pens were unnecessary little expenditures that probably didn't work, but then I got one! I really wanted to wear the ivory-colored dress I wore last New Year's Eve to church/dinner this Christmas Eve, but it had a giant stain directly on the groin that I never bothered to take to the dry cleaners to get out. The stain wasn't from anything questionable—I was chugging a bottle of Cold Duck Andre (typical) and dribbled a mouthful onto my lap on New Year's. If you know anything about Andre (and if you would like to sit at my lunch table, you'd better) you know that Cold Duck is a deep, rich purple colored champagne and thus the stain was incredibly noticeable. Two hours before church, I ran to CVS and got a Tide go Go pen in a last-ditch effort to get the stain out. AND IT WORKED! This blows my fucking mind. The dress looks brand new. (Besides the fact that it still smells like broken dreams and New Year's vomit, but that's not the point.) I mean, it was a dark purple Andre stain that had been embedded in that dress for a year and in a matter of minutes it was gone! PFWOEIFJWOIEFJ! My world has been rocked.

So in conclusion:

Things I support: Pogs, Tide to Go pens, Cold Duck Andre, drinking straight from the bottle
Things I do not support: Puff-painting your sneakers, dry cleaning, New Year's Eve, the fickle of nature of school children and their fleeting fads, alliterations

Grudge...REVERSED!

This has a been a damn good morning for old yours truly. Although it had a mighty rough start. My alarm clock went off at 7:30 and I looked at it, laughed in it's face, called it a derogatory name and chucked it across the room before going back to bed. When my body naturally woke itself up again at 9:05, this sort of seemed like a hasty and poor decision. As a result, I look like a blatant homeless person today. My hair isn't brushed, I'm wearing AN stitch of makeup, I brushed my teeth with stick of gum and I'm wearing an uncomfortable amount of mismatched layers for a person who has a job and doesn't reside on a subway grate. Like, really. There's absolutely no need for the insane amount of apparel that's currently on my body. I think in my half-asleep state of confusion, I couldn't handle the taxing decision of what to wear so I just kind of threw on everything that was in my line of vision. And now I'm sweating profusely...

Once I got to work, however, things started to look up. I logged into my email and saw that I had received a direct message on Twitter from the infamous Jessica P. Dedicated readers will remember Jessica from my Top 5 All-Time Grudges. Her work is Grudge #4. If you're a new reader who doesn't like to click helpful hyperlinks, allow me to catch you up to speed: If you wrong me in any way (major or minor) I will hold an impressive grudge against you until you Make It Right (aka The Make It Right Theory.) Making It Right can be as quick and easy as a simple "Sorry" or as long and drawn out as you want it to be. You just have to show me that you give a fuck. If you Make It Right, The Grudge is instantly reversed and all is forgiven. If you don't Make It Right, The Grudge continues. Indefinitely. Jessica P earned her Grudge in sixth grade when she ratted me out for hiding in the bathroom during the gymnastics unit in gym. (Oh, I'm sorry. My arm and back muscles were sore the morning after drunken Jenga night. My body was not meant for physical activity, nevertheless gymnastics. And this is America! I have a god-given right to hide in a bathroom stall if I don't want to participate in gym class! It's what makes this country so great!)

Well friends, it is my great pleasure to announce that Jessica P's grudge has officially been REVERSED. She Made It Right. It all started when someone with her same name followed me on Twitter. At first this made me slightly uncomfortable, given that I called her a few less than desirable names and perhaps gently insinuated I'd like to get drunk, sucker punch her in the face and run away to avoid charges...But then I thought, "Oh! She must have followed me on Twitter so she can direct message an apology!" and it all made sense. But the days came and went and I never got that apology. So yesterday, post-brunch and a few mimosas deep, I decided to direct message her.

2birds1blog to Jessica P: question: are you or are you not the jessica p**** who went to farquhar middle school and sherwood high school?

When I didn't get an answer, I assumed it wasn't the right Jessica P. But then this morning, a little bit of Make It Right magic happened:

Jessica P to 2birds1blog: I am the Jessica P**** from FMS and SHS.

2birds1blog to Jessica P: i would like my apology, ms. p****.

Jessica P to 2birds1blog: I'm lost...

2birds1blog to Jessica P: #4: http://tinyurl.com/yecycyy. as stated, an honest apology reverses the grudge completely. i feel one is overdue.

Jessica P to 2birds1blog: Oh my goodness! I certainly don't remember this but that girl was a bitch! She deserves a sucker punch! I'm so sorry if I did that!

2birds1blog to Jessica P: well bless your heart, jessica p****! apology accepted. grudge reversed. and given the opportunity, i'd never sucker punch you in the face.

Jessica P to 2birds1blog: Well thank goodness! I definitely believe the story...shameful the things kids do to each other! I was definitely a brat! Seriously, sorry.

2birds1blog to Jessica P: well i genuinely appreciate the apology. all is right with the world again.

SO THERE IT IS! She Made It Right! WIN! And as promised, I now hold absolutely no grudge against Jessica P and wish her only good things in life. It's just that easy. May this be a lesson to Kelly M, Dana P (...I'm specifically lookin' at you, homegirl,) Shannon M and Emmy G. Hell hath no furry like a Meggles scorned.


[Ugh, eff you NBC Universal for pulling the Steve Buscemi version...GRUDGE!]

I dare you not to cry...

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Here's my present to you: the most heart-wrenching episode of Family Matters in existence: It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Urkel. Enjoy!

Get a muppet involved and I'm DONE.

THINGS ARE GETTING RULL EMOTIONAL UP IN THIS PIECE...

Results of our Home for the Holidays Competition!

First and foremost, thank you so much to everyone who sent stories in for our little competition! Co-Blogger Chris and I read them and loled our pants off. And once our pants were off, we made love for seven whole hours. That's how much your stories moved us. They made Chris temporarily straight and me temporarily more tolerant of Gingers. Behold your glory. But of course there can only be one winner, so congratulations to...Nate Hinners!

Just kidding, that's not Nate Hinners. That's Nate Dowse, UW-Patville mechanical engineering major and All-City Swim Champ, who's picture comes up when you do a google image search for Nate Hinners. And while I'm sure Nate Dowse is a totally nice guy, one hell of a swimmer and a maven with a wrench, he's not the winner of the Jäger Tap Dispenser—Nate Hinners is. So congratulations Nate! We loved your story and it will run in all of it's awkward glory tomorrow! Enjoy the tap dispenser and take a (few) shot(s) for us.

(And for the record, yes, that really is me on the right. Told you my boobs were big.)

Honorable Mentions (in no particular order):

Toria Johnson.
"When I was twenty, I met my first lesbian. Wait, what? I know what you're thinking. Was this girl living under a rock? I'd really love to say yes, because that would make me feel better about myself. Except...I lived in Bellevue. Which is essentially Seattle. And Seattle regularly hosts things like naked bicycle races. It's not exactly hetero-palooza. But whatever you guys, I am an embarrassingly oblivious person. So when I say that Louise was my first-ever lesbian acquaintance, what I really mean is that this is the first person who was explicitly labeled as a lesbian. But I can pretty confidently say I would have clocked her even without the debrief, because she spent 76% of her time hitting on my grandmother..."
Toria, you had me at "lesbian" and "enema."


Emily Clark
"...So to recap: we're at dinner having discussions and reminiscences of early marriage and how all the married folks met each other. The newly engaged couple start telling HILARIOUS (not) stories of how they just moved in together and it's so crazy learning all these things that you didn't know about the other person like zomg did you know Frank uses q-tips to clean his nostrils every morning upon waking??? etc. etc. Everyone chuckles and my mother turns towards me and says "Don't worry honey, you'll learn all about this when you move in with your husb--- I MEAN PARTNER." (caps/italics/bold added by me but seriously that's what it sounded like in my head). This, of course, halts ALL conversation, every head whips in my direction because HOLY SHIT, SHE'S GAY?!?! Whereupon I practically shit myself trying to swallow the food I had in my mouth and say Haha it'll be a husband fyi just in case you are all wondering ha ha ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

fffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

And, uh, there you have it. A long-winded telling of how my mom informed me that I was a lesbian in front of my family and 10 odd neighbor-folk. "
True or false...your mother and my mother go to I Think My Daughter is a Lesbian Anonymous (ITMDLA) meetings together?

Emily Shepard
"...I dated a guy about nine months ago (coincidental number, no this is not a story of how I have a lovechild.) We were not super serious. We were never bf/gf. And it lasted about 6 months total. I broke it off because I thought neither of us cared enough to try any harder at it, and I was done. Have we got an image in our head of how this 'relationship' was? Good..."
You just perfectly described 78% of every relationship I've had in 24 years of life. Tip of the hat to you, Ms. Shepard.

Lilly T.
"First, I have to warn you that this is a story that is disparaging of someone who is dead. So, reading it may secure you a place in hell. I don't know for sure, but I suspect it."
(Honorary win for best introduction ever.)

Holly Phillips
"...The year after, I got gymnastics Barbie for Christmas—a gift I specifically asked for. When I opened it, I was super pumped! I mean, her joints were like all crazy and crap. But my excitement was quickly deflated when my grandpa immediately asked, “Holly, why did you get the black one?” I guess you should know my grandparents are typical southern conservatives—they mean well, but in the end it doesn’t always work out. When I was accepted to Louisiana State University, my grandmother merely said, “Were there a lot of blackies there?” She refers to homosexuals as, “the gays” and thinks I’m a lesbian after I laughed at something Ellen Degeneres said..."

Andrea Koebbe
"...It began one Christmas evening when I was 15. The presents had been unwrapped, the food eaten, and my family and I sat around the room in almost silence whilst the realization that though we only see each other twice a year, Christmas and Easter, we still have nothing to say to each other slowly crept into my mind. Enter my mother. After putting away the leftovers she sat down and said, “I was watching this show the other day and it said it’s the aphrodisiac in turkey that makes everyone so sleepy. That’s why you are all so lethargic and quiet.”'
God, if only. That would justify why I eat so much turkey quite nicely.

"Wannabe McBlogger"
"...Well, either I drank far more than I should have or the weed was a lot better than I thought because the next thing I know, I'm staring at the empty seat at the table and ask...."Where's Bruno Seabass???!!!1" Where's.Bruno.Seabass. The whole table turns and stares at me with the expression just screaming "what in the fuckity fuck fuck?!!?!"

Me: You know, that huge black guy (please note, all 4 people sitting at the table were the whitest whities in Whitieville)

Them: umm...who!?

Me: BRUNO SEABASS!!! YOU KNOW! THE HUGE BLACK GUY?!?!?!?!?!!!! He was sitting right there!!!!

I even created a themesong for him...

Seeeaaaaabass du du dududu

Smoke some grass du du dududu

Kick some ass du du dudududu

...and so on....

Yup. I was hallucinating. In front of my boyfriend's mother. The first time I met her. I think I blacked out after that because I'm not sure how I talked my way out of it. All I know is that 6 years later I was married to that boy. His mother and sister-in-law STILL ask me where Bruno Seabass is. And a little piece of me dies every time they do."
I loved this story. Not to mention the points garnered for the pen name and for citing the classic Nokia game, Snake.

Mike Spurill
"...3) Holiday Party 2005: My good friends Ian and Colin were throwing a Christmas party which I was super excited about. They always had plenty of booze and were good company. The party turned out to be a hodge poge of Marys all shoved into a small two bedroom apartment taking turns lip syncing "Defying Gravity" and talking about who ever wasn't in ear shot. So overall it was a success. I should probably preface this story by saying that I am kind of the drunk mother of the group which usually translates into really aggressive cock blocking. About a half a bottle of vodka into Holiday Party 2005 I became uncomfortably irritated with one of the other gays. It's no secret that gays sometimes have a problem with any word that ends in the letter 's' and that we move our wrist fast enough to keep every light in New York on for a solid hour. This guy didn't talk a whole lot but when he did it was nothing short of un nerving. If Macy Gray had a stroke and then was asked to sing at the Grammys only days later out of sheer pity (and if she was ever asked to sing at the Grammys it would be out of sheer pity anyway) that is what this kid would sound like FUCKING AWFUL. Three quaters a bottle of vodka into Holiday Party 2005 we decided to go to the bar. It was about this time that I noticed Gay Macy Grays stroked out self was pawing at my good friend Ian. I could tell that Ian was getting frustrated and somewhat uncomfortable and I totally understood. Then I noticed that this kid had something in his hair. I am not usually a nice person I am a self described 'hater' but it was the Holidays and I thought I would help the kid out. So I walked over and said " HEY KID! YOU HAVE SOMETHING IN YOUR HAIR COME HERE!" He looked at me perplexed and terrified as I reached for the side of his head. My friend Colin happened to look over and shouted "NO!!!" I reached for the side of his ear and proceeded to pull what looked to be a string. It was then that Gay Gray began to honk....not scream HONK. As it turns out this kid was actually deaf and I had just yanked out some tube and a hearing aid. Everybody looked at me like I was the only Jew in the room. Everybody was shocked and I have to admit that I did feel mildly bad about the whole thing. I felt like I had just sucker punched Helen Keller's great, great, great, great, great nephew or something. A few people helped him get everything situated and everyone began to play it off ....awkward."
In the words of the great Rachel Zoe: I die.

Anna Fulmer

"...Wife: You know who she (me) looks like? Honey back me up, who does she look like?

Boss: I dont know babe, who?

Wife: Trevor, come on, who does she look like

Trevor: I dont know...

Wife: LIKE CONSUELA!! TREVOR, YOUR HELP, THE ONE WHO MADE US THE ENCHILADAS AT YOUR PARENTS HOUSE!!! RIGHT???

Full disclosure, I'm half Spanish, am pretty tan in the summer, and have dark hair and eyes. However, I in no way look like Trevor's 65 year old, grey-haired, squat, Mexican housekeeper."

Christine O'Brien
"...I then proceeded to tell my entire extended family about my friend Landon who had just been released from max security prison (after 4 days due to overcrowding in the regular jail) for serving alcohol to minors. I later told my mother that I had slept with this boy freshman year, in a handicapped bathroom, though I didn't find out about this fact until literally years later, when he tried to reignite the fire. Also, I used to cheat on my high school boyfriend with Landon's roommate, Alex. My mother was, how do I say this...not impressed."
I appreciate that my note on Christine's piece simply says: "Sex in a handicap bathroom. Christine, you are a girl after my own heart."

----------------------------------

Thanks again to everyone who submitted, thank you to jagershop.com for contributing the tap and make sure to check out the blog tomorrow for Nate's full story! <3

And you can't get pregnant from doing it in the butt. Or in a hot tub. Or on even-numbered days.

So I've mentally checked out for the week. Anybody else? Yep. Thought so. I think it's time for a Q&A from old Doc Reuben. HUZZAH!

Why should anyone make his own condom?
A man on a camping trip with his wife, a fellow suddenly finding himself in a motel room at one a.m. with his girl friend, a college student in the back seat of a car—if they have not been foresighted—may find themselves ill-equipped for a night of love. American ingenuity being what it is, they make do with the materials at hand. A motel room has plenty to offer. Those plastic bags they wrap the drinking glasses in give some protection. They may be a little wide and a little short, but they are better than nothing. After an evening's celebration, many a couple has kept sperm and egg apart with a hastily-inflated party balloon. Even the kitchen can occasionally save the day (or the night). A housewife describes it:
"Well, I told Joe he was running low on protectors but he didn't believe me. We were in bed last night and all set to make love. He opened the drawer on the bedside table—that's where he keeps them—and all he had was an empty box. I wasn't going to be let down again! I got up, went to the kitchen and started looking around. The first thing I saw was a box of Saran Wrap. Well, I tore some off, got Joe to wrap it around his organ and we went right ahead. In the ads it says, 'Keeps things from spoiling!' Well, it worked—it kept Joe from spoiling my evening!"

------

As per usual, I'm so overcome with confusion and terror by Dr. Reuben's thought process that I don't even know where to begin. So let's just pick a point and jump in, shall we?

1.) First and foremost, I love that I sat down, opened the book and landed on this Q&A. This book, if nothing else, is consistently ass-backwards and hilarious. It's the one thing in this world I can always count on.

2.) I fully expected the next question to be, "But makeshift condoms don't protect from STDs or unwanted pregnancies, do they?" or something, but it wasn't. Instead he goes on to talk about operations for birth control. This means that it is Dr. Reuben's honest medical opinion that if you can't manage to convince your husband that he's out of condoms, just wrap the nearest semi-translucent material you can find around his cock, secure it with a scrunchie and you're in like Flynn!

3.) Which means, according to Dr. Reuben's flawless logic, that homosexuality makes about as much sense as a donkey playing poker but sperm don't stand a chance against the extreme barrier that is a loose sandwich baggie and a pair of crossed fingers? Fabulous. I want to live in this man's world.

4.) I now exclusively refer to condoms as "protectors" and penises as "organs." So if anyone would like to put on a protector and slip me their organ; I'm open for business.

5.) "Those plastic bags they wrap the drinking glasses in give some protection."
Well that's a liberal statement if I've ever heard one. Because those plastic bags offer the same amount of protection that hiding under your desk during a nuclear attack offers: none.

6.) "They may be a little wide and a little short"
God willing.

7.) "After an evening's celebration, many a couple has kept sperm and egg apart with a hastily-inflated party balloon."
First of all, no couple has kept sperm and egg apart with a hastily-inflated party balloon. Let's just get that clear right off the bat. Secondly, why are you hastily inflating the balloon? If we, as a team, are so dedicated to using "protection" that you're willing to inflate a party balloon over your dick and I'm willing to get fucked by it, I'd like to think we'd want to take our time and make sure there are no tears or breaks in it, thank you very much. Finally, if I were the gentleman in this situation, I'd imagine any pleasure derived from the sensation of making love to my wife would be immediately canceled out by the sensation of the rubber band from a balloon being around my dick. Because Lord knows it was not made for penises—it was made for constricting air-flow completely to keep a fucking balloon inflated. But then again, I'm not a doctor so what do I know?

8.) Dr. Reuben loves a good first-person account almost as much as I love a Zack Morris time out.

9.) Why doesn't Joe believe his wife when she tells him he's out of protectors? Why would she lie about that? Is she stockpiling condoms to resell and make a buck off of? Because if so, that's a smart woman right there and I'd knock her up and tie her down as soon as humanly possible. Fuck the Saran Wrap. And speaking of the Saran Wrap! Call me reckless, but if it's between Saran Wrap or Pull & Pray—I'm going Pull & Pray every time. They're both equally as effective and one is just genuinely more comfortable for all parties involved.

10.) "I wasn't going to be let down again!"
Oh Joe...not only can't you keep a box of condoms adequately stocked, you can't even satisfy your wife. And now she's gone and blabbed about it to Dr. Reuben! And it's 1969! If I were you, I'd take the Saran Wrap off my dick, wrap it around my head and suffocate myself immediately.

Welp...HAPPY HOLIDAYS DR. REUBEN!

Home for the Holidays Blog Competition/Drunk Recrapping

Ahhh Drinking Dame Friday Recrap Friday. Where have you been all my life? So not to be all "How about this weather huh?" but can you believe Christmas is next week? I feel like just yesterday it was June and I was learning all about the intricacies of Boss #1's uterine lining on my first business trip and suddenly it's time to trim the Chrismukkah tree!

Crazy. Time flies when you're...being paid minimum wage. To celebrate the holiday season, we're having a competition! Here's the deal: We want to hear your most awkward holiday memories. They can be funny-awkward or depressing-awkward (most of my memories are both) but they should have that certain 2birds1blog je ne sais quoi. (Read: embarrassing, awkward, unfortunate and/or accidentally racist.) The winner will get their story published on the blog AND a JEMUS MODEL JÄGER TAP contributed by our friends at the all-new jagerstore.com!

That's my personal Jäger Tap. Her name is Heidi and she's a thing of beauty. She's also located about three feet away from the foot of my bed. Soooooo...that's called alcoholism. The deadline to email me your stories is Monday night (oh wah, you have all weekend to work on it. It's currently 1 o'clock in the morning, this needs to be finished in a few hours and I'm drunk as a skunk. Trust me, you can do it.) We'll announce the winner Tuesday and post their entry Wednesday! So what are you waiting for?! Gets-a-writing!

WAIT! I take that back. Don't gets-a-writing yet. Read this recap of Jersey Shore first and then gets-a-writing. Because this week was THE PUNCH HEARD 'ROUND THE WORLD and you are not going to want to miss this!!!!1

Jersey Shore: Episode 4

Ok, just kidding. This episode was sort of boring and extremely anti-climactic. MTV decided not to show the footage of Snooki getting punched. WAMP, WAMP. However, I'm drunk and t-minues 30 minutes to pass out so this recap is going to be brief. There, now we're all disappointed. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Picking up where last week left off, Sammi drags her stiellots and slashed t-shirt home to "knock up" J-Woww for leaving the clerb to hook up with Ronnie. Except they didn't hook up. Ronnie just spooned the duck phone and wept gently while J-Woww watched Mama's Family and researched how to start a home day care center. Ronnie explains that he only got creepy on the dance floor because he saw Sammi give The Cop her number and Sammi explains that she only gave The Cop her number because she saw Ronnie get creepy on the dance floor and Ronnie sold his watch to buy Sammi a comb for her hair and Sammi sold her hair to buy Ronnie a chain for his watch and—OH HOW SILLY AND CHARMING! In the end they kiss and makeup and J-Woww skulks off to buy more rayon tops at Fashion Bug.

Ok. Not going to lie. I'm writing this from my mini vacation in New York (I'M SO DEDICATED, RIGHT?!) and at this point a friend of a friend came over with an adorable fluffy dog and my attention span went from dwindling to non-existent. There was an uncomfortable number of shots of J-Woww sitting on a beanbag chair with her skirt around her waist and her legs sprawled open like a trucker (because the dog wasn't distracting enough.) I think she was making up with her boyfriend or calling her local representative to complain about "dem dang koons" or something. More importantly The Situation and Pauly D brought home a couple of chicks who had to leave mid-hookup because one of their moms was "going to freak out." I mention this only because I fell further in love with The Situation when he said, and I quote, "Chill out Freckles McGee."

The next day the guys go tanning because they "need a new coat of paint" and go to the gym. Insert a bunch of scenes of The Situation roundhouse kicking a punching bag and throw in some token pussy talk for good measure and we're pretty much done here. Although my new favorite quote comes from this part when Pauly D says, "Mike would bang a gatorade bottle if it had a pulse at this point." That quote manages to combine three of my favorite things into one eloquent sentence: The Situation, gatorade and low standards. Amen.

The next night the gang heads back to the clerb where according to my notes: "There's a black girl and someone named Barb. That's funny." And it is. The Situation and Pauly D settle on a few Mediocre Marias to take home when en route to the house, they see a convertible with two hotter girls. So they do what any gentlemen would do in that situation and run away from the Mediocre Marias, hop in the convertible and zoom off with the hotter girls. And I'm not even mad. I'm just impressed. But not only did they strand the Marias, they stranded ooooold Snookers at the club, who leaves with Russ aka Ron. And I'm not making that up. His guido nickname is Ron. Like, short for Ronald. And I can't even handle how funny that is. Because the entire point of a guido nickname is to hype yourself up and insert a bunch of unnecessary letters to show how cool you. But he picked Ron?! Nickname Generator be damned, I've decided my Jersey Shore nickname is Pat.

Back on the Adventures of The Situation and Pauly D, our boys come to the sad realization that the Mercedes Girls are kind of the lame when guess who shows up?? The Original Mediocre Marias! The Situation and Pauly D then have to find a way to kick out Mercedes Girls and sneak up the Original Girls without them seeing each other and it's like one big episode of Saved By the Bell where Mario Lopez isn't the only tan person and Snooki is the Screech equivalent.

But our boys problems don't stop there. Quote The Situation, "One of these girls was definitely more cuter than the other." Yyyyyeah...about that: Buzz, your girlfriend—WOOF. Ok, to be fair, this girl wasn't that horrible. I'd describe her as a Plain Jane. Pauly D would describe her as "fucking busted." The Situation would describe her as a "Grenade." What's a grenade, you ask? The Situation explains, "You need to go out with your buddies so if a grenade gets thrown at you, your buddy takes it and not you." And then he cracks up at his own joke for a solid 45 minutes and tells the camera person to stop filming because he has a cramp and just soiled himself.

But Pauly D, ever the good buddy, decides to help The Situation out and entertain The Grenade so his boy can take care of business. Except The Grenade is unhappy. Because she's tired. And the hot tub isn't hot. And she wants water. And the dishes are dirty. But she doesn't feel like cleaning them. And she's tired. And her lips are chapped. And her feet hurt. And she's on her period. And she's bloated. And farty. And she wants to go home. It's at this point that Pauly D takes the suicide pill he keeps with him at all times and strands his boy with the girls. But not to worry, The Situation points across the street and says, "Hey, is that a sale on modest halter tops with built-in bras over there?" The Grenade's eyes light up and she shouts "WHERE?!?!?!" as The Situation runs off with her friend to bang her out quickly, yet efficiently. That is until The Grenade physically comes into the bedroom, tells her friend "you don't want to do this," scoops her up in her big softball playing arms and carries her friend back to Dignity Town while the rest of the factory applauds. And thus concludes this week's Adventures of The Situation and Pauly D. Join us next week when an oil rig explodes outside the hot tub killing The Situation's beloved pet duck, Becky.

Remember Russ aka Ron? Well it turns out he's friends with J-Woww's boyfriend and was sent to the club to keep an eye on J-Woww. Because when you got a woman like that, Lord knows you gotta hold on tight. Ron tells J-Woww's boyfriend that J-Woww was grinding on Paul D at the clerb and homeboy is none too thrilled. But here's what he doesn't get—they were grinding to house music. House music, you guys. Because in the Jersey Shore, you're allowed to grind genitals to ass and call it good, clean, Christian fun if it's to house music. "Honestly, it was just house music," Snooki explains to J-Woww's boyfriend. "It wasn't R&B. Nothing happened." And shockingly, J-Woww's boyfriend is like, "OHHHH! House music. My bad! Go right back to dry humping on the dance floor, baby! Loves you!" This seemed ridiculous to me too until I really thought about it. Because honestly, house music isn't baby-making music. It's fist-pumping, Ketamine-downing music. Would you rather get down to this:


Or this?


Kind of makes sense, right?! (And when the Jersey Shore kids start to make sense, we know the Apocalypse is nigh. 2012 bitchez.)

Snooki's mom comes to visit for the day and she looks like she's of an entirely different race. People probably think she's a nice white woman taking out her Latina litter sister from the Big Brother/Little Sister program for the day. How kind of her. Snooks gets uncomfortably sad when her mom drives all three hours back to New York...because she's oddly close to her mom...and it makes me very uncomfortable. So I'm just going to stop writing about it now. K. Bye.

AND THEN—FACE TIME. The gang goes out for drinks and things are going swell until a bunch of frat guys start stealing their shots from the bar. Snooki starts yelling at them and suddenly—FADE TO BLACK. The episode ends with the guy who punched her being led away in handcuffs while he shouts, "I just pushed her face!!!!" Yes, sir. You just pushed her face. With your hand. Which was balled up into a fist. And had a lot of momentum behind it. Which in some circles is considered a "punch." Time to knock a bitch up. And Jesus Crush I can't wait for the next episode.

FIN. Have a great weekend and don't forget to send your stories to meg@2birds1blog.com by Monday night! Kissesssssss!

Thoughts Chris couldn't flesh out into full entries

- Ugh, relationships. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. They are the one thing in life that truly epitomizes the saying "The grass is always greener on the other side." When you're single, all you can think about is that you're single, and so you do everything you can to find that special someone, including shack up with a few people you're sure you've seen on America's Most Wanted but they can turn out to be really caring people if you gave them a chance, right?! Or you successfully find someone who will tolerate your crazy, and then three months down the road the honeymoon period wears off and you realize that you're dating the most heinous beast to have ever roamed the planet, and you fantastize about what it would be able to nail anyone with a pulse without that pesky little thing called guilt.

One thing I have found in my numerous years in training as a relationship expert, is that it is much easier to get into a relationship than it is to get out of one. Don't believe me? The jump from singledom to relationshiphood is easy. It usually involves some mood music and soft lighting, and is often horizontal. You've grown tired of banging every guy/girl with two eyes and a basic grasp of the English language and your perpetual fear of STIs is starting to ruin your life, so you put down the beer goggles and settle with the least offensive person who will have you. Easy enough.

Getting out of a relationship is a horse of a different color. And that color is shit brown. Because while the thought of being single may be appealing, the reality of being alone again is mortifying. In a relationship, you are Linus, and your significant other is your blanket. They go with you almost everywhere, they don't judge you when you suck your thumb, they are blue and made of cotton. (No? Not so much on that last one?) The thought of being without them makes you want to cower in the corner of Snoopy's doghouse for days on end. This is because it is alot easier to be miserable in a relationship when you're getting laid consistently than it is to be miserable being single and horny.

- Do reality TV show contestants/stars get paid? I imagine they must because it's work. But is there like a sliding scale of payment? For instance, do the Top Chef contestants get paid more than some drunk slut on Rock of Love, since the cheftestants are producing these world-class dishes from Spam, artichokes, and locally grown peat mos, whereas any given ho on Rock of Love is producing nothing more than saliva and various strains of the Herpes virus?

- If you follow me on Twitter, you know my thoughts about Halloween and New Years are about the same. A large amount of planning goes into it, a small amount of fun comes out of it. Do you think that the inverse would work, and if I just didn't plan at all for NYE, I'd have a friggin blast?

- Political correctness is the worst thing to have happened to us as a people and a nation. I think instead of making everyone be so damn June Cleaver all the time, we should make everyone learn how to take a fucking joke. Being a 'mo, I feel like I have my right to express this opinion, as I can tell the difference between gay bashing and innocent joking around. If a friend of mine calls me a "fag," I'm not going to call the ACLU and demand retribution. However, if some random stranger with a lead pipe does the same, then it's time to worry.

One group of my college friends was particularly great about this, in that we had a gay, a Jew, a Puerto Rican, and two Asians (like we're prizes in a cereal box. Collect all 4!). And we all made fun of each other equally, without anyone ever feeling hate crimed. Maybe I was spoiled, so that when I make an Asian joke, it's not out of any inherent racism, it's because I am just used to poking fun at my Asian friends. I just would expect anyone I offend to say "Well at least I'm not gay," in return. It's only fair.

- I worry about growing up. Not for any vain reasons like "Oh no, I don't want to lose my hair!" or "My ears are going to get so huge and gross!" or "I don't even want to know how much loose skin I'm going to have" but mainly because I fear I'm going to be that old man. Not the creepy lecherous old man who stares at you on the subway and licks his lips, but the old guy who says whatever bat shit crazy thing is on the tip of his tongue. I'm just not patient with strangers, especially ones who are inconveniencing me (duh). I'm already a hair's breadth away from yelling at a complete stranger for breathing too loudly, imagine what's going to happen when I completely lose that filter with old age. Scary things will happen.

Tulane Chris Does Death: Part 2

My heaven post is going to be the first in a series called “Tulane Chris Does Death.” I’ve been thinking about death a lot recently. I flew at the beginning of November, and my left ear never popped back after the plane, and it annoyed me enough that I did something completely out of character: I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor. Either they find something wrong and I’m sick, or they don’t and I’ve wasted an afternoon. I especially hate going to a new doctor because I have to give a family medical history, and my genetic heritage is unenviable. I’m lucky I grew bones.

“Any illnesses in your immediate family?”

“High blood pressure, kidney stones, Alzheimer’s, costochondritis, rheumatoid arthritis, ankylosing spondylitis, diabetes, stroke, heart attack, migraine, manic depression, borderline personality disorder, ADHD, premature dementia, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, blindness, psychosis, irritable bowel syndrome… a lot of female stuff I probably don’t have to worry about… that’s probably it. Jury’s still out on lupus. Oh, and my mother’s allergic to every single domestic animal except cows.” (Author’s note: Yes, really.) We can see color and our blood clots, but otherwise we’re rapidly turning into one of those European royal families that got so overbred they started producing kings called “the Mad,” “the Simple,” “the Unready” and “the Bewitched.” I lucked out by only getting ADHD and costochondritis, which is a painful but not dangerous inflammation of the chest cartilage, so if I were king all the histories would start “Christopher the Inattentive rubbed his chest and winced.”

Anyway, I didn’t go to the doctor because my chest hurt and I couldn’t pay attention. I’m used to that. I went because of my damn ear. Instead of completely ignoring the rest of my body like I wanted her to, she started looking in things and measuring things, and apparently I have something called “high blood pressure.” I blame American politics; our immigrant neighbors have heard me shout at the newspaper so much that they think every single politician’s name is pronounced “Oh-God-that-jackass,” and that the two major political parties are the Shitheads and the Shitforbrains. I’m supposed to take some expensive medicines called “exercise” and “not eating so much salt.”

Fuck that noise. I didn’t tell the doctor this, but I don’t want to live a terribly long time. Eddie Murphy keeps making movies, and I just am going to get Alzheimer’s. That is a fact. I carry that gene. Men in my family check out on their seventy-ninth birthdays. On November 25, 2063, I will start making even less sense than I do now, so if you want help with a crossword puzzle ask me before then. Now, I could stop eating salt and watching Murder, She Wrote for exercise and have my body live to be ninety-six, or I could keep pouring butterscotch into my bourbon and have my body and mind quit on the same day. The doctor thinks I should stop doing things I like so I can spend my last decade in a facility where occupational therapists named Tillie try to remind me how to do the Hokey Pokey. I think she should fix my ear. Her warnings have made me think about my eventual end, though, so check this space for the next episode of “Tulane Chris Does Death.”

P.S. Grammar check wants me to change “Fuck that noise” to either “Fuck that noises” or “Fuck those noise.”

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

It's hard to believe that the holiday season is already upon us. Hanukkah is already underway, Christmas is next Friday, and Wikipedia tells me Kwanzaa starts next Saturday. Wacky.

I don't know about you all, but 2009 has been a whirlwind of a year for me. It just went by so fast. It seems like just yesterday I was blacking out at Arctic Bar or some other ludicrously overpriced watering hole for New Years' (my goal this year is to remember the ball dropping...I have no memory of this last year). Not long after that, I was listening to Celine Dion's "All By Myself" and crying on Valentine's Day. Then pretty soon came Arbor Day and Flag Day, which were celebrated with copious amounts of trees and flags, respectively. Next, the first 4th of July I haven't spent with Meg in five years (and therefore the most depressing. See Valentine's Day.), followed by Bastille Day, Labor Day, and before you know it, it's Halloween and I still don't have a costume, so I threw one together in 5 minutes that definitely did not involve pants. Three short weeks later, I gave myself a hernia from eating too much turkey, and now, here I am trying to get into the holiday spirit.

In the olden days, it was never hard to get into the Christmas spirit, because as a child, you don't have to concern yourself with gift giving/decorating/sending out cards/etc. All you're concerned about is what the flip is going to be under that Christmas tree/Hanukkah menorah/Kwanzaa fruit when the time comes. And if it's not a pony this year, you're going to throw the most epic tantrum on the planet. This could apply to any year while you are still living at home, with varying levels of tantrum. Once your mom trots out the holiday decorations/traditions, you know it's on. Even after you move away to college, it's still fairly easy to get into the swing of things. A full month off to do nothing but celebrate the holidays? Yes and please.

Once you're out there in the world on your own, and you have to make the holiday happen for yourself is when it gets a little tough. The days between Arbor Day and Bastille Day are no different than the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas when you're doing the same thing for 8 hours a day. "Christmas is here," you say to no one in particular, because all of these spreadsheets are driving you crazy, "I had barely noticed. Powerpoint. Synergy. Conference call. Dilbert. Dunder Mifflin. More office buzzwords." This past weekend, I finished all my shopping, put up/decorated my tree, I even filled out all my Christmas cards, but I'm still finding the holiday spirit lacking. Maybe this is because I have yet to watch It's a Wonderful Life with the fam. (Which, if you think about it, a horrible Christmas movie. A movie about a failed suicide on Christmas Eve? Really, George Bailey? You're going to off yourself on Christmas Eve and ruin the holiday forever for your wife and kids?) All of the traditional methods of getting into the holiday spirit thus far have failed, so to help me help myself get jolly with it, I put together this short list of:

Co-Blogger Chris' Alternative Holiday Spirit Ideas

1. Take a tip from Buddy the Elf. Who better to help you feel the joy of Christmas than Buddy the Elf? (Who also talks to narwhals!) The trick with Buddy is to get rull rull simple-minded. Take a spin in a revolving door! Eat spaghetti with maple syrup! Spook a coworker in the bathroom by joining them in an impromptu duet! Literally any activity will get you in the Christmas spirit with the help of Buddy the Elf, because everyday is like Christmas for him. Sending a package via interoffice mail? Wow! It's like someone in your office is getting an early Christmas present, in manila wrapper paper! Listening to a voicemail at work? Santa sure could use that fancy machine, that would save space over all those pesky letters! See? If you believe it hard enough, even you can make Santa's sleigh fly.

2. Kill Santa. Whoa, morbid, right? But it worked for Tim Allen. One minute he's all "Santa doesn't exist and it's tool time and what have you," and then the next minute he offs the big man, and literally becomes Santa. It's sort of sink or swim in this situation, you are either going to get your jolly, fat ass into the Christmas spirit, or you're going to take a nosedive off some poor schmuck's roof and foist your responsibility on him. It's probably infinitely easier and far less dangerous to your health to go for the first option. Also, as Santa, you can a) eat all the cookies you want without having to worry about gaining weight, because it's sort of expected of you, b) see the world, even if it is at breakneck speed, and c) go home to Mrs. Claus, because have you seen how fine that woman looks in her red velvet negligee? Damn girl, don't hurt 'em.

3. Steal someone else's Christmas. Chris, back the truck up. First, you want me to kill Santa and now you're telling me to steal from other people? What kind of list is this? Well, my friends, the only real way to understand Christmas, is to understand that Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if, Christmas, perhaps means a little bit more? (Don't try telling this to 10-yr-old Chris, because he was dead set on getting a Talkboy.) Think about the Grinch. That ugly, lonely bastard is deadset on destroying Christmas. But all it takes is one verse of "Dahoo-dooray" (or whatever song the Whos sing, this always baffled me) to turn him into the most Christmas-y bitch on the planet. This could work for you, too. Try throwing a trash can through the plate glass window of a Best Buy and making off with a digital camera. Or poaching the Salvation Army's collection jug. Once you're arrested, you'll realize that Christmas was never about getting a new plasma screen TV. The only downside is that your cellmate, Spike, doesn't celebrate the holidays, so your good cheer will most likely go to waste.

4. Defend your house from the Grinch. If only the Whos were as resourceful as Kevin McAllister. Coat the insides of their chimneys with Who-pudding, or break with Who-ornaments and strew them in front of the hearth. You can bet if Kevin McAllister were Cindy Lou Who's big brother, the Grinch would never have stolen Christmas. And the Grinch would also probably have tetanus and a dire need for a doctor once he left Who-ville. I wouldn't say that Kevin McAllister didn't have the holiday spirit in him, but he was kind of a bratty little kid. An ingenious little brat, but a brat nonetheless. If I were in his shoes, I would have nonstop peed my pants in the attic while Marv and Earl ransacked my house. Tying up paint buckets and setting up booby traps? Eh, that's way too much work. I want my mom. But boy does he appreciate his family/Christmas after having defended himself and their home all night long.

5. Switch up your holiday traditions. Just look at Jack Skellington. No one went at Christmas with more fervor than Jack, simply because it was something new and different. If it's Halloween every Christmas, eventually, you're going to wish it was actually Christmas. Sure, maybe he didn't get it 100% right, but you can't blame him for trying. If you're hesitant to wear a Scream mask for the birth of Jesus, maybe decorate an Easter egg or plant a tree or champion civil rights. Holiday spirit doesn't have to come from eggnog and making out under the mistletoe. It can some from Oktoberfest beer and making out over a romantic candelit love-themed dinner. But Halloween at Christmas doesn't seem like a bad idea. Trick or treating for Christmas presents. Haunted Santa's houses (with ghost reindeer and zombie elves!). Halloween caroling? Eh, it's a work in progress.

So there you have it. Some different ways for you to get into the Christmas spirit. Though I suppose they aren't for everyone. I guess you can just drink your eggnog and sing your traditional carols like everyone else. That works too. I guess.

Oh my god. Yes.

Insta-boner.

Dr. Reuben's Q&A o' the Day:

Are there any other types of masturbation beside genital and anal?
Yes. Most people don't talk much about urethral masturbation but it is relatively common. In this form of sexual stimulation, the passage from the bladder to the outside is stimulated by inserting objects and moving them back and forth gently. So far no one has come up with a mechanized way to do this, but, with transistors and miniaturization, it can happen any day.
This type of sexual play is most common in a woman, probably because her urethra is more sensitive sexually. Located between the clitoris and vagina it is well-supplied with nerve connections to these structures. The most common object used for urethral stimulation is the handiest one—a hair pin. Inserted gently and slid back and forth it rarely brings an orgasm itself but facilitates and intensifies clitoral and vaginal masturbation. Safety pins (closed), pencils, rubber bands, and even lipstick cases will do the trick. As the urethra is used more and more this way, it stretches until it will admit the tip of the finger. Women who enjoy this technique then masturbate with one finger on the clitoris, one in the urethra, and one in the vagina. They say that each area multiplies the sensations from the others.
Men also use urethral masturbation but to a much lesser extent. The greater length of the male passage requires longer objects, but these are easily found. Small pieces of wire, lengths of plastic tubing, large caliber pencil leads, all find their way to the urethra.

-----------------

OK. Now, I know it's not cool to judge what gets people off and I'm just as open-minded and Free to Be You and Me as the next gal, but OH, HOLY NIGHT. There is nothing sexy about the thought of shoving anything, nevertheless a metal hair accessory, up my pee hole. Nothing. In fact, that is the antithesis of sexy. If I were to sit down and make a list of 3 of the most unsexy things I can think of, it would be the following:
3.) Nazis
2.) Partial-birth abortions
1.) Shoving something up my urethra and "sliding it back and forth"

I would rather receive a partial-birth abortion FROM a Nazi than shove one single bobby pin up my urethra. The word "shove" and "urethra" shouldn't even legally be allowed in the same sentence unless we're talking catheters. Even then I'd prefer we establish and substitute a safe word, like "foxtrot." Foxtrot the catheter into the urethra. (Nope, still traumatizing.) Urethra itself is such a heinous word. It's like Uruguay and wreath. And then someone shouts AH! at the end because the thought of shoving something up it is so terrifying. Oh my god...my loins.

Oh, and a lipstick case?!

What is your urine stream like if you can comfortably accommodate a lipstick case up there? What does that sound like from the next stall over? Because I'm imagining something like dropping a lake onto a sheet pan and I don't like it.

As for gentleman—shoving wire up your urethra? I don't have a dick and mine still hurts after reading that. I googled "urethral masturbation" (because everyone at work already thinks I'm racist so, fuck it! Let's make 'em think I like autoerotic urethra play as well, huh?!) and one of the first links is "Electrical wire as a foreign body in a male urethra: a case report." Ummm...I clicked it. And let me tell you—IT CONTAINS PICTURES! For the love of all that is good and holy, please be warned that it CONTAINS PICTURES! Pictures that gave me a UTI just from looking at them! I can't even talk about what I saw. It wasn't just one wire—it was two. Oh my god, stop. They were the thick radiopaque wires. Meg! Stop typing! And black. Oh my god here it comes...AND HE'S UNCIRCUMCISED AND HAS A WIFE AND KIDS AND GOT MINIMUM SIX INCHES OF WIRE IN AND THREE INCHES WERE LEFT STICKING STRAIGHT OUT AND GAHHHH IT WAS TRAUMATIC!!!!1 So, you know, NSFW! LOLZ! The X-ray is unreal. If you don't think you can stomach the real deal; try the X-ray. You can still make out penis though, so if I were you I'd go home, pour myself a strong drink, call a loved one, sit down and take a look-see. (I'd also take a few Advil first.) (And Midol for the inevitable cramps.)

Thank you Dr. Reuben. You've really outdone yourself!

Hmm.

From Sunday's washingtonpost.com:



...What does it say about me that my immediate reaction after reading this headline was: "MEXICO IS SMUGGLING GOLDSCHLÄGER?!"

You're doing a fine job, MTV

This past week was utter hell for me. Not only were Boss #1, Boss #2 and Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker in the office all day every day, we also had a team of five creepy old men from corporate here to oversee "Blitz Week." And apparently a large part of overseeing Blitz Week is critiquing my coffee making abilities and rubbing my shoulders a wee bit too much to be called Christian. I should have known this was going to be a shitty week. Any week named after a Nazi war strategy can't be good. Fingers crossed Anschluss Week goes a little bit better next month. Anyway, as I rode the metro home last night feeling adequately molested and wiped-out, I had the most glorious realization—it's Thursday night; Jersey Shore is on! Life is worth living after all! I think Jersey Shore is my absolute favorite show on television right now. MTV hasn't done this good since Carmen: A Hip-Hopera and god bless them for enriching our lives once more. And people need to realize this! We, as a people and a nation, need to go to the Hallmark store, get a novelty over sized thank you card, sign our names with a nice note and send it to MTV for giving this gift to us. But according to this Gawker article, not everyone agrees with me. Apparently Jersey Shore is getting served a giant pint-glass full of ice, cold haterade and I for one do not like it:

"Even before the show even started Italian-America groups were up in arms about it, and after the premiere, Dominos pizza pulled its advertising as did American Family Insurance."

To which I say, fine! Good riddance! That just means more Body Heat cologne commercials for us! I don't understand why Italian-American groups have their proverbial panties in such a twist. I feel like the average person is well aware that this isn't an accurate representation of all Italian-Americans. It is, however, an accurate representation of all Guidos. And I'm pretty sure Guidos are just fine with that. It's in the nature of the Guido to want attention, so really Jersey Shore is just helping a bro out. I don't think there's a Guidos for Accurate Portrayal in the Media (GAPM) group somewhere on K street lobbying to get Jersey Shore kicked off the air for perpetuating Guido stereotypes. So cool out Italian-Americans. We get that you guys aren't interchangeable.

Too bad MTV's problems don't stop there. According to Gawker:

"Then, a clip of our number one girl Snooki getting punched in the face taken from a promo of upcoming episodes made its way around the internet, pissing off a bunch of people, including our friends at Jezebel...To diffuse the Snooki bomb...the show will air an anti-violence PSA after next week's episode that includes the pun that says, "Violence against women in any form is a crime," and pointing viewers in abusive relationships to the National Teen Dating Abuse Hotline.

Oh, Christ on a canoli. Come on! People aren't laughing at that video because violence against women is funny; people are laughing at that video because Guidos are funny. Fact: Guidos sometimes hit their womens. (I'm sorry, but it's true.) And that, much like the rest of their ass-backwards, batshit crazy culture, deserves to be mocked relentlessly. You see, we're laughing at them, not with them them. There's a difference. You can't blame MTV for the fact that Guidos are a group of juiced-up, old-school meatheads. They were slamming protein shakes and slapping bitches in the face long before MTV came a-knockin' on their door. MTV just put it on network television for us all to laugh at and tear down. And that's a good thing. When I saw that video, I had two options: a.) feel overwhelmingly sad that Snooki got socked in the face because that is indeed disturbing and upsetting or b.) laugh at Gudio meatheads for how absurdly unacceptable they are. I chose B. Why? Because I can't just sit around crying all day about the injustices of the world, I'm sorry, I just can't. There are 24 hours in the day and I already spend too much of those crying for reasons related to my own life, thank you very much.

But wait, there's more! MTV also has to deal with people peeing their pants about whether or not the term Guido is derogatory. Which is a hard issue, as there really is no right or wrong answer. I struggled with this myself when I wrote a post about Guidos last year and it was the overwhelming opinion of the 2birds1blog community that Guido is not a derogatory term. That obviously made it gospel in my book, so I recommend the rest of the world follow suite and get over it. Therefore, there was really no need for MTV's programming President, Tony DiSanto to release this statement:

"I understand that it is considered a derogatory term by certain people. I don't see it that way, since I don't think of "guido" to mean Italian Americans across the board. Not all these kids are fully Italian American; it's more about a specific character type. We actually did pull the word "guidos" from voiceover and descriptions of the show [due to the protests]. However, if they refer to themselves that way, we let that exist as is."

Don't do that, Tony. Don't give in to the overly sensitive bullies of the world. As your subjects themselves would say, they're just mad haters, yo. If a Guido gets punked of on the dancefloor, do you think he skulks off into the bathroom to change his tampon and cry? Fuck no. He vas's up those lips, rips off his Ed Hardy shirt and fist pumps like it's his cousin Tony's confirmation party all over again! So keep doing exactly what you've been doing, Mr. DiSanto. You're doing a fine job.

And now, it is my privilege and honor to PROUDLY present Jersey Shore: Episode 3:

Our episode begins with the cast rolling out of bed after a long, hard night at the clerb. J-Woww pulls the old "oh my gawd...what did I do last night? LOL I don't remember a thing, haha lolzy lolzy LOL!" card. Which is hilarious because we all know that despite having a boyfriend, she publicly jerked off Pauly D in the back of a club because who can make it the two blocks home to your bed when the Patron is flowing and the She-Wolf remix is thumping? Pauly D gently informs J-Woww of this and she denies, denies, denies until her little hair extensions fall out. Pauly D understands why she's doing this though. Quote, "She just doesn't want to feel like a trash bag because she has a boyfriend and she kissed me with her tongue." (No seriously. Thank you, MTV.) There's also some lingering tension between The Situation and Sammi but I'm going to skip that entirely because I'd rather talk about Snooki and pickles. You see kids, Old Snookers likes her pickles. They're her favorite food. She also likes to eat them in a certain way. That way being to put on her "porn star in training" trucker hat, get on her hands and knees like the dirty girl she is and suck the brine right off them in front of every single male roommate in the house. Which is odd because that's exactly how I eat my favorite food, Kashi Go-Lean. So, you know, jinx!

But let's go back to old J-Woww. First and foremost, this episode was hard to recap because it was very J-Woww oriented and I can't understand a god damn thing that girl says. I think it's a combination of the Jersey accent and the being too tan to enunciate and the sounding like she just swallowed a set of janitor's keys and I just have no idea what she's talking about. I did decipher that her boyfriend decides to visit for the weekend and eeesh is she nervous. She can't decide whether or not she should tell her him about that whole pesky Pauly D hand job in the club thing or hope he's busy in a cave somewhere sticking his fingers in his ears screaming "LALALALALALA" at the top of his lungs when this episode airs. She chooses the latter. Wise decision.

And speaking of boyfriends! Angelina's is having some mAj0R dRamZ with her boyfriend, Mike. You see, Angelina and Mike have been having some serious communication issues since Angelina's moving to the Jersey Shore. "I dunno what the hell he's doing and he doesn't know what the hell I'm doing!" she explains. I mean, there's always the duck phone, cell phones, Twitter, Facebook, Loopt, the US Postal Service and carrier pigeons to keep two people in touch, but where's the fun in that? Mike finally agrees to meet Angelina and her friends Lana and Leena (I swear to god) at the club where we learn that Mike is technically married and in the middle of a divorce. Because nothing says "catch!" like a Guido accountant from Long Island going through a messy divorce. As the rest of the housemates giggle and gossip about what Bad News Bears Mike is, the camera pans to our Golden Couple just in time to capture their sudden break up. Apparently Mike wants Angelina to stop fucking calling him and Angelina was done like two weeks ago, dude. Who says absence makes the heart grow fonder?

Unfortunately, things aren't going much better for old J-Weez. In an incredibly tense and awkward night vision scene, J-Weez decides to test the waters and see exactly how miffed her boyfriend would be if she, oh I don't know, jayed-off a stranger on national television for the whole world to see. His answer? I'd dump you. Oh. Well good then! Thank god this was all just hypothetical! NIGHT!

The next morning, Angelina isn't feeling too hot. She's still a bit distraught over that whole breaking-up-with-my-married-boyfriend thing and decides she can't be taxed with the stresses of selling novelty t-shirts that day. She shows up to her shift an hour late, walks up to Samson the manager and is all, "Cough. Cough. I am very sick today. I can not work. A-choo and whatnot. So, talk to you later. Cough or whatever." When Samson calls her on her bullshit, she basically tells him to sit on it and heads home to iron her denim skirts.

Guess who's not happy about this? Yep, Boss Danny. Danny rides up to the house on his jaunty little bicycle with his distressed jeans and flying monkeys and is ready to kick ass and rip titties. I'm not going to lie, I am rull attracted to Danny. His whole take-no-shit attitude and Guido-lite vibe makes me want to quit my job and move to the shore to sell t-shirts and booty shorts 'til death do us part. Angelina, however, refuses to talk to Danny unless he comes into the bathroom where she's locked herself, which Danny obviously refuses to do because he's a big, strong man who's not going to take shit from anyone and I just want to rub him down with olive oil like the Roman God he is and watch him glisten in the Jersey sun...What was I just talking about? Ah, yes. Angelina. Danny tells her that if she's not going to come to work, she can't live in the house anymore and she has to leave. Angelina's reaction: "Blokay. Bye!" So she packs up her trash bags, grabs her curling iron and leaves the show. The end.

...Umm...Is anybody else as completely impressed by Angelina's dedication to not sell t-shirts as I am? I mean, I know I'm supposed to think she's a stupid brat and everything, but I'm honestly just impressed. Anybody else would have gone crawling back to Danny once they cooled down, but Angelina really stuck to her guns. I honestly started a slow clap in my apartment. Alone.

Meanwhile, the rest of the house have a big family dinner to celebrate the fact that ding-dong the witch is dead. "Angelina was like a half-assed firecracker," The Situation explains, "She fizzled real quick and made a lot of noise." HI-OHHHHHHHHH! Man, they really hated her. There's literally a montage of Angelina is an Asshole clips that's played while they all bond over what a fucking cuntbag she was. Glorious. After dinner, J-Weez decides to call her boyfriend and confess that she cheated on him with Pauly D. Homeboy promptly tips his hat, wishes her well and hangs up on her. I think J-Woww was upset by this. I think. She mumbles something in her confessional about nuns and Suzy Homemaker and breaks into Arabic at one point...but I think the moral of the story is she's sad, but if she has to be single, she's going to show her true side show—her "dirty, filthy fucking true side." Soooo...HPV: coming to a shore near you.

OK, I'm not going to lie: at this point I had had my teeth whitening trays in for 15 minutes longer than I should have because ever since everyone pulled their commercials, the breaks during Jersey Shore are like 45 seconds long and I didn't want to miss anything good. But at the same time, I really didn't want to die of fluoride poisoning because I was scared to miss something on Jersey Shore, so it was here that I decided to run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I came back, the show had already come back and Snooki was grinding on the dancefloor with a Guido Olsen Twin while shouting, "I GOT A FUCKING HOT TUB! COME BACK TO MY HOUSE WITH ME!" God damn you, Aquafresh whitening trays! Either way, the chick comes back to the house with Snookers and they make out HARDCORE in the tub "cuz guys like that." Then Snooks makes out HARDCORE with The Situation! How does The Situation feeling about Snooki? "If one thing leads to another, I'm not going to tell her to get off." Ahhh...young love. And speaking of young love, Sammi and Ronnie are totes still going strong. They go on mini-golf date and bang in the guest room. *Hugs!* In his confessional, Ronnie says, "I always said don't shit where you sleep, but for her, I'd roll around in it." According to my notes, "that's the most adorable thing I've ever heard!!!" Which makes me think I should re-evaluate adorable things I've heard.

Unfortunately, things don't stay peaceful in Ronnie/Sammi Lovey-Dovey Town for long. The next night the gang heads to Club Karma where Ronnie gets called onto the dancefloor to demonstrate his signature "creepy dance move," which sort of look like a cross between crypt-walking and having a seizure. While Ronnie seizes it up on the dancefloor, Sammi starts talking to her friend "The Cop." (I have no idea if he's actually a cop or if that's just his Guido nickname, sorry.) All of a sudden, Sammi looks over and sees Ronnie dancing with a Token Ho. To be fair, Ronnie was actually dancing with a whole pack of people and a Token Ho just happened to be among them. Sammi freaks out and retaliates by shoving her vulva into The Cop's hands, which upon seeing, J-Weeze tells Ronnie about. Distraught, Ronnie storms out of the club and goes home to cry into his pillow, listen to Dashboard Confessional and cut. Because she's suuuuuuuuchhhh a good friend, J-Weeze also leaves the club and rushes back to the house to comfort Ronnie in his hour of need. Wires get crossed and it gets back to Sammi that J-Weeze and Ronnie left the club together, IN A SEXY KIND OF WAY. Sammi is having none of it and says she's gonna go home and "knock a bitch up." Which I'm not sure is exactly what she meant because Lord knows when I see a girl moving in on my man I'm not like, "GOD DAMNIT! I'M GOING TO ENSEMINATE THAT BROAD GOOD!" But then again, it's the Jersey Shore; aNytHiNg GoEs!!!1

Fin. Have a super weekend guys and we'll see you back here Monday morning! <3